


Beyond Programming

by leopoldjamesfitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Future Fic, post framework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 18:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10622472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopoldjamesfitz/pseuds/leopoldjamesfitz
Summary: After the framework, Leopold Fitz is left with the realization that there's peace in closure. So, he chooses to find it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to say about this, other than the idea took a life of it's own yesterday. Characterization may be a little messy, but I really want a scene like this in the future. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

“I have to find him,” he says abruptly one day over tea. She nearly drops a full teaspoon of sugar on the counter at his sudden proclamation and then worry sets in her as she realizes who he’s referring to. “My Dad,” he said, mostly to fill the silence. “I have to find him,” he repeats.

Jemma’s fighting a war in her head already. It’d been just over a couple of months since they’d slipped from the framework and back into the real world. Fitz had been getting better since the first day he’d come out, speaking regularly with a therapist and progressively speaking to her again. Quite honestly, she hadn’t wanted to know which regret of his life had been ‘fixed’ by AIDA before she’d programmed him a life in the framework, terrified it was her.

Finding out that it was Alistair Fitz was both calming and collectively a punch in the gut. She’d only heard stories, the things that Fitz had told her in confidence, things she’d never share to anyone ever as long as she lived, but he was not a good man. She clenches her jaw as she looks up at him finally, dropping the spoon back into the sugar. Their teas can wait.

“Are you sure?” She asks quietly, rounding the island to place her hand on his forearm. He drops his gaze and covers her hand with his, nodding slowly.

Even if he’s not, she can tell without him saying it that he’s thought about this a lot. She wonders briefly if he’s spoken about this with his therapist. “No,” he said finally, his lips pulling in a tight line. He’s waging a war in his own head, she realizes. “But I’ll never be sure… I need to have a conversation with him. Clear my head,” his voice becomes thick with emotion and she envelopes him in a hug before he can argue with her. He tucks his head into her neck and shakes slowly, the beginnings of a sob wracking his frame.

“I need…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “I need to get all of this… this pent-up anger off my chest, Jem,” he whispers at her ear and she nods. “He doesn’t deserve closure. But I do.”

 

* * *

 

They stand together before the exit doors, silence heavy. A jeep awaits to take him to the very public area where he’ll meet Alistair Fitz for the first time in nearly twenty years. She’d offered to come along with him, and he’d told her multiple times that it was his burden to bear. It was something he needed to do on his own. It does not erase the emptiness or sorrow she feels for him, nor does it stop her from wanting to be there with him. Fitz hasn’t been the same since the framework, but none of their team have been coping much better. If anything, she recognizes that she should feel glad he’s taking a step forward and not a step back.

"If you need me to come," her arm reaches across the empty space between them and she laces their fingers quietly. "If you need me to be there... before, during or after. Don't hesitate, yeah?"

He stills for a moment, looking at their clasped hands and then her. "Okay," he says finally, squeezing his hand around hers. "I will."

When Davis slips from behind them, moving toward the front door of the jeep, he looks back at them wordlessly, a silent question as he tilts his head toward the vehicle. They both nod and he slips inside, revving the engine to life.

“I should go,” Fitz says quietly and she’s never wanted to protect him more, to hold him until all the hurt in his life has disappeared. He’s right, she confesses quietly. Alistair Fitz wasn’t her enemy, or her regret. It was his own. He’d been so quick to help her with the guilt she felt for Will, she feels bad being left unable to help him more than she already is doing.

Jemma nods quietly, slipping her hand from his and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Call me if you need me,” she reminds him quietly. He nods and presses a chaste kiss to her lip before hiking the backpack he’d been holding onto over his shoulder and rounding the vehicle. A handful of seconds after the slamming of the car door, the vehicle pushes out of the exit.

She watches until it’s nothing more than a black dot in the horizon, heaviness seeping through her.

 

* * *

 

When Leopold Fitz was younger, he idolized his father. He’d never really understood why the man would sometimes drift for a couple days, or come stumbling back, but he was his Da and he loved him endlessly. At least, at first.

When he was six, he witnessed a particularly bad fight between his Mum and Da. His Mum had walked around with a black eye for nearly two weeks after that.

When he was seven, his father destroyed a model Fitz had been working on for several weeks out of anger that the boy hadn’t cleaned up his room when he’d been asked to.

When he was eight, his father didn’t come home for six days straight. His Mum had been distraught at the time, and even angrier when he finally toddled home, drunk as a skunk.

When he was nine, Fitz spent six weeks on a project for Father’s Day only to have Alistair not return home for the day at all, or two subsequent weeks after that. His Mum found out about Mary, his father’s mistress, during that time. He’d never tell her that he heard her crying at night every day until his father returned and even after that, the fighting just got worse.

When he was ten, Alistair packed up all of his things during the night and left without a word.

When he was eleven, he asked his Mum if he could be called Fitz instead and she acquiesced upon hearing his reasoning. Leopold had always been his father’s name for him, the one he used when he was the angriest. Leo was always his Mum’s, and she still called him that after that day, but he found it easier with time to find good, fond memories in the name.

When he was twelve, he graduated high school.

When he was thirteen, he got accepted into college.

When he was fourteen, his Mum told him that his Da had been ‘round asking after him and he made her promise she’d never let him know another damn thing about his life. She’d yelled at him for cursing, then, but she’d promised him.

When he was fifteen, he graduated from his PhD and received an acceptance letter to S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.

When he was fifteen and a half, he met Jemma Simmons, and by sixteen, she was his best friend in the world. Nothing before then mattered.

Walking into the coffee shop, he became suddenly plagued with the idea that he wouldn’t know what his father looks like. After all, his memory would have been flawed after nearly twenty years. He sits in a window seat and orders a tea that has too much sugar in it, just the way he likes American tea, and waits.

And then waits some more.

He begins to give up, thinking that Alistair might’ve stood him up, and probably for the better, when an older gentleman stumbles through the front door and curses at it, his accent distinctly Scottish. He orders a coffee and looks around the shop, stopping with a grimace when he meets Fitz’s gaze.

The photo they’d found of him had to have been at least six years old. Alistair looks older than he’d imagined, and smells considerably like ale when he sits across from him. Fitz wants to ask why he’s in America anyway, despite knowing that his father had been from there when he was younger. It was how Fitz had gotten his permanent residency as easily as he had some ten years earlier. He’s never told his Mum that, now that he thinks about it. He feels guilty.

“My boy,” there’s nothing cheerful in his father’s tone as he straightens in his chair, outwardly checking out the young waitress that comes with his coffee. She asks them if she can get them anything else and Fitz quietly shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, that’ll be all.” His father attempts to turn on the charm, and the waitress is polite enough, but Fitz watches the deep shudder that shifts through her as she walks away with a small smile.

They sit there awkwardly for a number of minutes, until all Fitz can taste is the sugar that’s on the bottom of the mug and Alistair looks more sober, although not much. Yet, he still doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do. Fitz has beginning to wonder if he hasn’t signed them up for a staring match.

“So,” Alistair cuts the tension with a blade and a sigh. “How’ve you been?”

It’s an oddly hospitable thing to ask him and it catches Fitz off guard for a moment. “Alright, I s’pose,” he answers, dropping from his gaze. His phone feels heavy in his pocket and he remembers Jemma’s promise to him. He should’ve brought her in the first place, but he’d been stubborn enough to think that he could get through this without screaming or pure anger rushing through him. “And yourself?” He asks, not at all caring what his answer would be.

Thankfully, Alistair ignores it. “I tried finding you about half a year back,” he tells him, somewhat lighting up at the prospect. “Met a chap in Glasgow that I knew when you were just a wean. Said he was working with a Leopold Fitz. I thought it was impossible ‘til your Mum said you were off in America still.”

Fitz feels dread in his gut. “You’ve spoken to Mum, then?”

He feels oddly upset that she hadn’t told him, despite the fact that at fourteen he’d nearly begged her not to speak a word of the man as long as he lived. But he feels more upset toward his father. This man doesn’t deserve to know anything about his life.

“More or less,” he says in answer. “Didn’t say much. I gathered you were still in America from the photo she has of you and this pretty little thing. Must’ve been taken recently considering the,” he cuts himself off to gesture to the scruff. Fitz knows the one he’s talking about, the one that Jemma sent over the summer on their day trip in DC. He has a copy in his notebook. Jemma keeps saying she’s going to get it framed when they move into their own place. He finds it a demeaning the way Jemma’s been objectified in front of his father and his fist clenches underneath the table, hand laying against his phone.

“I wish you’d leave her alone,” Fitz bites. “You’ve got no right to know what she’s doing, or what I’m doing for that matter.” Alistair stares for a long moment, and says nothing, even as the waitress refills his coffee. Fitz grabs for his phone.

 

* * *

 

Fitz [12:18pm]

Do you think I made a mistake?

 

Jemma [12:20pm]

Are you okay?

 

Fitz [12:21pm]

No.

 

Jemma [12:21pm]

I'm on my way

 

* * *

 

The first thing she notices about Alistair Fitz is his eyes. Over the years, she's grown to love the parts of Fitz that are unmistakably his Mum. His curls, his smile, his eating habits... Looking at his father, the first thing she notices is that they have the same eyes. Alistair's cold gaze reminds her of Fitz in the framework, of the emotionless gaze he looked upon her with, and not at all like the eyes she's fallen in love with over time, the ones that tell a story without meaning to.

She sinks into the chair beside Fitz and his hand finds hers under the table almost immediately. His grip is nearly bruising. "Sorry I'm late," she admonishes herself quietly, pulling a tight smile across her face.

The edges of Alistair's lips barely pull upward before the motion is gone. "I didn't realize we were expecting company," his voice is dry, and he's not speaking or looking at her at all, but rather at Fitz accusingly.

Jemma ignores him quietly, taking a slow breath. "Jemma Simmons," she says finally, confidently. She doesn’t offer him her hand, as polite as she might try to be to this man. "I'm Fitz's wife." She adds, despite the untruthfulness. It's all semantics anyway; she wears the engagement ring he’d given her, she knows everything about him, she loves every part of him. She doesn't need a ring, or a ceremony, or a piece of paper telling her that they're going to spend the rest of their days together.

"Funny," he says, but his voice conveys no humor. "I thought Leopold here would've wanted to share the good news before you showed up." She inhales sharply, listening to Fitz's silence before lifting to look up at him. His left hand is trembling around hers, the way it does when he's nervous, and she clenches her other hand on top of it quietly. They don't say anything, but they've never needed to.

Fitz’s jaw tightens. “Don’t call me that,” he tells him in a deeper voice than she’d imagined before.

Alistair sneers, eyes widening as he stares at his son, appearing to intimidate him. Fitz doesn’t flinch and she’s filled with pride. “What?” He asks, lifting his mug to his lips. She can smell the dark roast coffee and she wrinkles her nose. “Your name?”

 

* * *

 

Fitz’s blood threatens to boil over. It’s been heating up since Alistair had shown up late, and drunk, and then reminded him of all the reasons why Fitz had never wanted to find him before now. The man is a waste of space, really, and the only good thing he’s done is leave him and his mum alone.

He doesn’t realize that he’s said that out loud until he tunes back in and sees Alistair staring back at him, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Is that how you feel, boy?” He asks, leaning over the table. Fitz feels Jemma’s hand dig into his. “Might I remind you that it ‘twas you that sought me out, _Leopold_?”

“Not because you deserve it,” Fitz tells him honestly, and maybe too quickly. He’s seen the rage this man can unleash, and while he’s never been on the receiving end he knows how bad it can get and knows that he does not desire to experience it at face value. “But because I do.”

Jemma squeezes his hand again and out of the corner of his eye, he can see her, beaming and prideful. He’s never loved anyone as much as he’s loved this woman, as much as he’s never really loved himself. “So, you dragged me out to shit on me, yeah?”

“No,” he replies honestly after a moment.  “I’d like to think twenty years’ absence was enough of a period of time for you to have learned from your mistakes, but it’s clear you’re no more repentant than the day you swept off in the middle of the night.” He stops for a moment, allowing his father the courtesy of absorbing his words. “Recent events have reminded me that I’ve been hovering onto this… this weight. It’s been twenty damn years and I don’t think I’ve not thought about what I could’ve done or what could’ve changed the events but I realize after all this time, Da, it wasn’t me. It was you.

“When I was younger, I used to idolize you. Can’t understand why. All you did was eat, drink and piss yourself to sleep. I remember even defending you to some of the boys in the school grounds, can’t tell you how many times I got the piss kicked out of me over stupid fights like that. But you weren’t at all this man I’d been idolizing. It took me a while to realize it, but the man I idolized was a figment of my imagination. The man who fathered me, you, Da, was a drunken, blistering idiot who took out his own insecurities and anger out on his wife and only begotten son.

“It’s taken me a number of years to come to terms with that, even stop defending ye when it came down to it. But you weren’t my father, not in any sense other than biological. And I’ve spent the last two decades doing everything in my power to make sure I never turn out like you. I’ve got your temper, you can ask Jem, but I’d never lay a hand on her or anybody else for that matter.  
  
“See, because in all the time I spent idolizing you, and looking up to you, the only thing I ever learned was that complacence was rewarded. And that’s some Hydra level bullshit, Da. Don’t know if you even meant it to be, and it wasn’t even until I was working against them and then with them that I realized all this time, you’d been shaping me for complacence, when you should’ve been helping me do better than that.

“If it weren’t for Mum, and for Jemma, and for all my friends… I know I’d never be half the man I am today. And none of it is thanks to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about, _boy_ ,” Alistair stuttered finally, eyes wild and angry. “But I was only ever trying to be a good father to your stupid arse!”

Jemma was happy enough to sit on the sidelines, but her temper flared quickly as Alistair lashed out. "Well, I'm not so sure that you would know the first thing about what it's like to be a good father," she snaps and recoils quickly, her eyes darting to meet Fitz's. He doesn't look away from the proverbial staring match he and his father are in. "Fitz, on the other hand, is a good person, an honest person, and he'll be an amazing father to our child."

She doesn't realize at first that the hand not clutching Fitz's hand has sunk to her stomach or that she's bloody blurted out the news she's been sputtering over since earlier that morning when Fitz had burst into their room mere moments after she'd found out to let her know that he'd organized a meet until she looks up at Fitz and sees his bewildered gaze, but for once it's not on her. He takes a low, unsteady breath and stares at where her hand lies for a long moment, his vision tunneling around him.

"Jem..." he lifts his eyes to meet hers, a silent question that she answers with a soft smile.

"Later," she promises, letting out a heavy sigh. Alistair grunts in between them.

“S’pose if you’re done, I’ll go do what I’m good at,” he moves to stand, the movement causing the table to shake and his coffee to slosh over onto the white space. He stumbles a little when he stands. “Get drunk and piss myself to sleep.”

He leaves before either Jemma or Fitz can say another word, although it’s not the quietest exit. When the door slams shut, Jemma slides a twenty from her purse and lays it on the table beside the mess. _Are you okay?_   she wants to ask, but it’s a silly question.

Instead, she curls her arm around his and asks, “would you like to go home?”

All he can do is nod in answer.

 

* * *

 

Later, she finds him sprawled out on their bed. The moment they’d touched down in base, she’d been tugged one way and he the other. It’d been entirely inconvenient, considering the news she’d revealed at the coffee shop. It’s only when they’re both done for the day with no worries about being called out of bed that they get the chance, and as she tiptoes into their room, she sees him turn toward the door sleepily. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and worn.

Jemma smiles quietly, beginning to strip out of her day clothes, leaving them in a neat pile in the hamper. She throws an old shirt of Fitz over her shoulders and snuggles against his side. His arm winds around her waist and the other one stutters just above her still flat stomach. She presses it down, swallowing vague emotion. “Do you want to talk about today?” She asked, sweeping her hand up to gently cup his cheek. He leans into the motion and shakes his head slowly.

“Not tonight,” he tells her and she doesn’t press. His hand rolls a slow circle against her stomach and then moves, sliding under the fabric of the t-shirt to lay flat against her skin. “Did you… I mean… was this…?”

She smiles and the movement brightens her features as she nods, tears beginning to sting the corners of her eyes. “Yeah, Fitz,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. He watches her for a long moment before he erases the distance between them and kisses her ardently. His hand is awkwardly squashed between them, and she’s crying into the kiss, but neither of them seem to mind.

When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against his, lifting her gaze to meet his. He’s crying too, she realizes and she softly smiles at him. “You’re not… you’re not worried that I could…”

She feels her heart break the moment he asks, and pulls away, quickly shaking her head. He fingers wind through his barely-there curls, cradling his skull in her palms and he kisses the inside of wrist. “No, _never_ ,” she whispers with conviction. “I meant what I said today, Fitz, and everything I’ve said to you before that. You are a good man. An honest man, and I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the father of my child.”

There’s a choke of a sob that comes out of his throat, but he’s smiling widely at her, albeit a bit watery. When they kiss again, she can taste the saltiness of their tears and he drops his hand from her stomach finally, but only to wind around her waist alongside his other arm. They make love that night, the promise of their future in every beat of their hearts.

When the morning sun rises, they talk about Alistair Fitz and the man he could’ve become and together, the move on.


End file.
